


Gatorade

by gemnosha



Category: Marvel, hawksilver - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Pietro tastes like energy drinks, Smutty, kind of cute, rebul gives you wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 14:43:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8450377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemnosha/pseuds/gemnosha
Summary: During the battle against Ultron, Clint finds a moment of peace, and then a moment of something a bit more rocky but to say it it's not as heavenly as peace would be wrong.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Good old smut. Hawksilver, and poetry. This was totally inspired by Closet Monster.

Like most things when it came to Pietro, it happened so fast. 

Clint pressed close his shirt buttons, the black plastic sliding between the cotton fabric. He watched the seam from his red shirt hook onto the buttons, slipping into the holes in the centre. It was peaceful to do so. In this moment, he felt at peace. The world was practically crumbling beneath his nose, cities were lifting, metal humanoids were talking about total destruction, and prior-to-now Sokovian twins were tearing the Avengers apart. But this moment was so peaceful, he could feel his breath barely brush against his fidgeting fingers. The fine hairs on his knuckles didn’t bother to even brandish in his manmade breeze. His eyes slit shut. He sat himself on the edge of his bed, his feet tucked in his knee socks, his cargo pants rolled slightly above his ankles, his shirt buttoned and belt buckled. He was ready for a quiet night by himself to celebrate still breathing during a battle like this. Fucking Ultron, he thought. And then he breathed it, like he felt as if the words came out of his lungs that the reality of it might just flip. “Fucking Ultron."

“That sounds painful. Why would I be fucking Ultron, old man?” The voice was rough, and smooth at the same time. Like a wild predator yawning in the morning sun, the voice didn’t cut into his ears but it stretched out over him. Pietro Maximoff. Remember, prior-to-now Sokovian twins tearing the Avengers apart? The fastest one of the pair. He was a tall drink of water sketched from blue and silver crayons. His body was smooth, firm and tanned puzzle blocks stacked in a Godlike shape that barely fit into the skin tight athletic sock Pietro preferred to slip into every day. His hair fell like snowflakes over his silver eyes, brandishing like the ocean waves when he sprinted around the world. But Clint never paid attention to him. Clint didn’t know anything about how the steamed shower drapes caught onto his wet skin in the late afternoons. Clint couldn’t memorialize for a moment how sensual it looked when Pietro slid his white fringe past his ears to try and read the untranslated Russian files Natasha archived. 

He fixed his train of thought, “What do you need, Pietro?” He pronounced his name like it was a sin, pressing his lips thin on the P. Clint didn’t mean to sound so aggravated, but he was tired. He could feel the knots clumping together in his spine.  
“Did I do something to you?” Pietro picked up on the tension, his feet shuffling back a little with hesitation.  
“I’m just tired.” He looked up from his shirt buttons, and the hairs on his knuckles. “You need something?” His eyes warmed up to how Pietro leaned against the closed bedroom door, a small cup in his hands, steam rising from the edges.  
“You have your coffee at noon, you were not in the Cafeteria today,” Pietro began, “I thought I could bring it for you.” His silver eyes clung to Clint’s, waiting for approval. 

“You noticed?” Clint’s voice caught between his lungs and his tongue, “I mean, thank you.” He stood up quickly, walking toward Pietro to get his coffee. Both boys reached out their hands to each other, Pietro’s with the warm cup breathing steaming air, and Clint’s bruised from rope burns. Their fingers brushed each other’s for a moment, the warmth from the cup radiating onto Clint’s skin, and the warmth from Pietro’s hand sparking a different burn. Clint’s eyes rushed up to where Pietro still was staring, at him.  
“I noticed.” Pietro said. Suddenly, the air was thick. The warmth from the cup, and from their hands shot electricity through their bodies. The room around Clint morphed into one big blur, blue rays of light fixating around him like arms, and a bolt of lightning struck around him in what seemed to be a circle. The only thing he could see clearly was Pietro’s silver eyes, his snowflake hair, his tanned complexion, and his pink, desperate lips stretching into a smile. It lasted a good second, and then he could feel the fabric from his bed melt onto his skin like a marshmallow hung over a bonfire. The heat from Pietro’s body crashed into him with waves, and his biceps wrapped around his shoulders. The room still seemed blurry, trying to slowly fall back into place, but Pietro was six times as clear as Clint has ever seen him. “I notice everything about you,” He smirked at Clint’s hazed expression. 

Where was, this coming from? That’s what Clint wanted to ask, but his breath barely existed. And suddenly, neither did his sight. He shut his eyes out of instinct, Pietro’s lips softened against his, the smoothness of their wet tongues captured them both. Clint’s heart slowed. It was as if Pietro’s kiss hooked onto Clint’s will and slung it into its own web. A hiccup of a moan escaped Clint’s busy lips when the same warmth over his shoulders pressed at his hips. Pietro’s pelvis rolled onto Clint’s in desperate strokes, the warmth of his bare body seeped through the thin material of Pietro’s tights. That’s when Clint felt their chests touch, bare and smooth. Pietro had removed most of their clothing already, another example of his fast-moving capabilities. He didn’t see that coming. 

“Are we really doing this?” Clint’s voice barely broke through, and Pietro pulled away from their kiss. Clint watched for a response. Pietro licked his lips, and could bare nothing but a quick, uncontrolled nod. “Then I want to be on top.”  
Clint's focus was clear again, and he could perfectly see the dents that formed by the dimples on Pietro's cheeks when he grinned. It was enough to make him crazy. The mattress creaked and shouted when Clint flipped on top of Pietro. A gasp from the white haired boy halted mid air, just on the fine hairs of Clint's ears. Clint's finger found its way on Pietro's lower back, stuck between the firm spine and the soft cushion of the mattress, tracing the warmth falling from Pietro's back. He lead his fingers down to where the brim of his ass started to lift. The heat on Clint's fingertips began to rise, cupping his hands on the full warmth of Pietro's ass, holding as much of his cheek in his palm as he could. Another gasp. He rushed to cover his mouth over the boy below him, breathing in the sweetness that exhaled from Pietro's gasps. It felt exotic, the whole world seemingly disappeared around them and Clint wanted more. If he could steal the breath from a boy like Pietro over and over again, he would. The room flashed blue and silver for a moment, and when it was over and the world seemed normal again, Clint was in the same position with his hands all over Pietro, but there wasn't a single item of clothing in sight. Suddenly, the throbbing of his own hard cock was the only thing he felt, the heaviness of it pressing against Pietro's own. Everything about it felt so easy, and smooth. Pietro was so smooth. The white haired boy pushed his hips up against Clint, rocking their bodies together, Clint could feel Pietro reeling the much deserved orgasm inside himself to the edge of his cock. The pressure was holding at the bottom of his shaft like a hard thumb rubbing against him. He bit onto Pietro's bottom lip, the plump shape separating under his teeth. He could taste the blood he drew, and then he couldn't. Pietro bled for a short second, and then he was healed. Clint tried again, unable to control himself. On his chin he could feel where Pietro's beard was beginning to regrow, the stubble poking at him as he kissed. He could feel the patches of tiny hairs on Pietro's belly, a pathway to the aching cock that he thrust so forcefully with Clint's. 

Pietro pulled away, his hand reaching through the space between him and the other man, crossing over to where his pants rested on the edge of the bed. He dug inside the back pocket quickly, pulling out a black square packet. A condom. "Be fast or slow, I don't care. Just let me see your face." Clint fell back onto Pietro's lips. He tasted the iron that dried on his lips, and Gatorade. Pietro always drank Gatorade. Clint noticed, too. Clint noticed everything. That is, despite the fact that he totally couldn’t remember the silhouette of the white-haired boy dancing in the locker room showers.  
With in a second, Clint held the square packet open, a transparent condom pinched between his index and his thumb. He positioned it over his cock, a flick of his wrist, and it spread easily to where his shafts began. A fast-moving trick of his own. He slid his free hand to where his bed pillows were chaotically spread and pulled out a red bottle from behind it, it was waiting for this. Or something else, Clint reminded himself. Pietro grinned at the idea of Clint hoarding a bottle of lube under his pillows, he thought, I could have come sooner.

Their lips were still together, Pietro grinned against Clint’s wet mouth. The sound of slick jerks taking over the room when Clint squirted the lubricant over himself, and onto his fingers. Then his hands were back to where he preferred them, on Pietro ass. Between the spaces of his cheeks, tapping where his skin pulled in, circling the puckering hole. Without warning but a hard kiss, a clashing of teeth, a moan, he pressed both two fingers in like an eager dog. Pietro's tongue slid against the inner workings of Clint’s mouth, his loss of breath humming into Clint’s lips.

Another finger, another moan, another hard kiss. It was a chain. A series of events that occurred until Clint’s hand spread Pietro open wide enough to slide in his cock. A rough, uncomfortable moment of Clint biting into Pietro’s grunts, the blood drawing. The pain sending chills into the white-haired boy’s spine, and a sting against his coccyx. It lasted for just a moment. The ecstasy of Clint’s slow strokes and hard thrusts pulled Pietro to push against him, rocking on top of his cock, rubbing his own against Clint’s torso. 

If kissing Pietro was like drinking Gatorade on oval lips, fucking him was like getting high on paint fumes. Redbul gives you wings, Clint smiled to himself with his lips between Pietro’s. 

Clint leaned sideways, flipping over to have Pietro on top of him. The silver eyes stared down at Clint, two stars in the darkening room, and the bedroom felt like a ship on high waters, everything rocking from one end to the other. He held his hands on Pietro’s sides, feeling the way he bounced on his dick. The look in Clint’s eyes matched that of a velvet flame, fused with desire and joy. Pietro felt his stomach flip at the sight, his right hand holding onto Clint’s body and the other on his own cock, jerking as fast as the Earth turned. 

“I’m going to come.” They said together, the shiplike bedroom rocking fast. They could still taste each other’s lips, Gatorade and iron. The taste slipped from the brims of their lips, the silver eyes shut and Clint's chest dropped. It felt as if they were on a capsizing ship. The waves he imagined crashed into them, the warmth spread over his chest as Pietro's hands slammed onto his abs, his lungs blowing up, trying to breathe. His lips shivered at the feeling of himself releasing within Pietro. The bed creaked one last time, Pietro fell off of Clint. He gasped as the pieces of Clint that were left inside him, a once-warm quickly cooled liquid, leaked from the sensitive skin that Clint was still thinking of. Clint traced his fingers over moist droplets on his abdomen, and pressed it against his lips, trying to taste whatever Pietro had to offer him. Gatorade. Tangy. 

"I bet Ultron doesn't fuck that good," Pietro let out a laugh. He turned to watch Clint's hazed gaze at the ceiling, probably staring at his imaginary sails, in his imaginary ship. His fingers still circling his tongue as he tasted Pietro. Pietro smiled. "Kiss me." 

It was slow, desperate, and comfortable. A hint of Gatorade, a teasing dash of iron, and salt. A kiss that enveloped their rocky finishing orgasms. 

"We should do this more often." 

They smiled on each other's lips.


End file.
